Do Only A Little
by TheNewBrawler
Summary: "People say toys and trinkets do little. But for some, they do much."


_Disclaimer – I don't own the Hobbit._

_Based on the film. A sequence of little Bofur vignettes. I read the book when I was eight and have only seen the film twice, so take some artistic license if some of my facts are incorrect. XD This follows a nonlinear narrative._

_For Razer._

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Do Only a Little

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The little knight swings its sword; swipe, swipe, _clunk._

It judders, little arms freezing; sword held aloft and stiff, save for the occasional shiver.

Bofur frowns. He turns the figurine in his hands, inspecting each nook of the tiny clockwork. There's an abnormality in the main gear; the notches are uneven, so any fluid action at all is out of the question.

Luckily, it is nothing that a bit of light chiseling won't fix.

He chuckles as he sorts through his tools, scattered across a work bench rich in tin and half broken trinkets and wood shavings. Holding the doll to candlelight, he inserts the chisel between the gears and begins to softly chip away at the offensive indent.

He'd been aware, for quite some time, of the shadow spilling heavy and dark over the open door.

Thorin Oakenshield is a formidable figure at any given time, be it in the huddle of the night or the bold grey of noon. But it's an early morning, spritely and fresh, and even that solid and sombre spectre wrapped in furs can't detract from the creases in Bofur's smile as he turns to greet the Lord under the Mountain.

Thorin stands in the middle of the tiny workshop amongst stitched smiling dollies, leather and woolen balls, hobby horses, spinning tops, whistles, rattles and hoops, and a large paper dragon with scales that glitter like gold beneath the morning sun. It lounges across the top shelf, the spiked end of its tail dangling just short of Thorin's shoulder. He refuses to sit, despite Bofur's coaxing and his best beer, and from his lips, he utters one single offer.

Bofur nods and he's turned back to his little knight; he hums under his breath, working away, until Thorin's very tone begins to fray.

Bofur pokes the wooden warrior into action.

The sword swipes down in a clean, cut line.

Bofur rubs his hands together, hooks his flute from beneath his workbench, and bows to his new leader.

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Bofur had been travelling through the middle lands, wares strapped to the sides of his beloved, age beaten black pony. She trudges side to side with sluggish hoofs; his feet dangle a little too close to the round underside of her belly and as she brays, shaking her head, he wobbles dangerously.

Beyond the parting of the mountain road, the rising sun dusts the broken rock in mild shades of citrus. In the distance, there are the misty dents of a small settlement pricking the sleepy horizon. Bofur sniffs, adjusts his hat, and smiles. The toys clink in their sacks with each fresh trot of Elenor's hoofs, and Bofur sets for the small sign of life.

He hadn't meant to come upon the humble dwellings of a travelling Thorin, but as the tents and ponies and bundles of stone, and the mighty steel wrought mining tools come into view, he grins widely and urges Elenor into a soft gallop.

Two small figures spill from the biggest tent, pearls of laughter carrying over the rolling hills, and Bofur's poor pony is set upon by Fili and Kili, Thorin's sister's sons.

Thorin emerges after them, stalwart and stern, even in the bask of sun and the presence of his merry nephews. He greets Bofur with a nod as the two younglings snuffle in the toy sacks, beaming up at Bofur with wide, hopeful eyes.

Later, after rich food and rough drink and bawdy song, does he sit on the mount and watch the two children clash training swords below. Fili is heavier than his brother, and wields his dual swords with ease. Kili, lighter on his feet, sweats and struggles with the close combat and as their uncle draws near, his dark eyes dart away nervously.

That evening, Bofur gets to work.

The next morning, Bofur leaves quickly. Kili had been practicing all the way through the night, and to the shared glee of his astounded brother, he pulls back his miniature bow and blunt ended arrows (safety first) and fires a perfect shot into their home made bulls-eye sketched on a nearby tree.

Yes, Bofur leaves very early that morning, and poor Elenor is worked overtime for Thorin is a determined sort, and Bofur was sure he would have chased him halfway around the damn misty mountains, sword raised and bellowing, before the coast was clear.

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There are some little soldiers you cannot cradle in your hands, cannot rescue and take back to the workshop to be repaired and repainted. There is stuffing that refuses to stay in, latches that refuse to click, clockwork that won't succumb to the lubing of oil. Bofur has faced many a depressed puppet, a ripped doll, a broken soldier.

When Fili is hit, he judders, arms freezing; swords held aloft and stiff, save for the occasional shiver.

And then he roars, and dives back into battle.

Kili lies behind him, dark eyes blankly appraising the heavens. His bow hangs loose in a cooling hand.

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Blue eyed Frodo is a curious sort, much like his uncle.

Bilbo bustles from place to place, chattering nonstop, the first flecks of silver prevalent in his honey combed hair. The once immaculate hobbit hole is now a mess of maps, compasses, papers, pens, books, illustrations, manuscripts; all stacked in overstuffed piles from floor to ceiling. Luckily for Bofur, the pantry has remained more or less unchanged, and so he helps himself to Bilbo's best beer when the hobbit's eye is turned toward introducing his silent nephew to his old friend.

Frodo is a curious sort, but he is still very much a child, and Bofur is especially gifted when it comes to appeasing children.

Indoors, Frodo plays with Bofur's newest invention; a pulley dragon, painted blazing orange and with jaws you can snap shut and open with string. On its back sits Bilbo's perfect likeness; a Baggins miniature with a little dagger reared high in victory. As it is pulled along, the clockwork operates and the tiny hobbit smacks the dragon's back with each turn of its wheels.

"Tis' a humble trade, mine," Bofur beams through the window at the enthralled Frodo. "People say toys and trinkets do little. But for some, they do much."

Bilbo sucks on his pipe and rearranges himself more comfortably in his chair.

"I would like him to see a real dragon one of these days, Bofur. But knowing the bloodline, he'll swap tales of grand adventure for tea and patterned handkerchiefs."

In the dimming daylight, they sit in quiet, with the occasional break of laughter and talk of old times, of stinky trolls and drunken elves and dwarves in barrels. As the dark finally lies down upon the land, Bilbo's eyes glaze with memory and his fingers itch toward a glint of gold hung around his neck. Bofur fumbles for his flute and raises it to his lips.

He plays a soft, wistful sound, of an adventure long since ended, of friends buried deep in earth and memory, but never truly lost in thought. Gazing up toward the stars, Bilbo's lips form a name, a name still sung through the halls of Erebor, and Bofur's song rises up and around until it is lost on the gentle sway of the wind.


End file.
